A soprano performed “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Immediately afterward, shouts of “Free America!” mixed with cries of the banned “Sieg Heil!” Schmuederrich was busy shaking hands. He waved Josef over to him. Josef pointed apologetically at his wristwatch, could see Schmuederrich’s lips forming words, but he quickly fled outside.

At a take-out place on 126th he devoured a giant portion of rice and beef in a spicy sauce with a Senegalese name.

His building didn’t have an elevator. Six flights of stairs. He always tried to find that day’s rhythm, one that he could keep up all the way to the top.

He was half a flight to the top when he heard the ringing of the telephone. He now took the stairs two at a time, unlocked the door, and reached for the phone on the wall out of breath. The ringing had stopped. He put the receiver back on the hook. For a while he stood motionless in his dark apartment. The dog licked his hand.

He had sent his brother a photo of Princess.

Impressive animal. But not all women like dogs. Did you think of that before you got her?

This was Carl’s way of trying to find something out about his distant brother.

After standing still for some time, feeling like he’d forgotten his way around, he turned on the overhead light. Again he could see the face twisted in pain, the bright white underwear amid the uniformed men, the hairy legs, the arms pinned back.

He put on Bunny Berigan, “I Can’t Get Started,” poured himself some whiskey, and fell back onto the couch. He put his feet up on the coffee table and felt the stack of papers shift. Goebbels. For Arthur. He still had to translate it. No, he still had to refuse.

He grabbed a newspaper and learned that the television was the next big thing; it would change society, just as the radio had in the twenties.

The phone rang again. This time he got to it in time.

“You took off so soon, little man. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Come to the Old Heidelberg next Tuesday at seven. There are a few German businessmen who want to meet you. The textile business. Could be interesting for you financially with those radio skills of yours. Dörsam will be there too. Don’t let your nerves get the better of you, you sissy.”

Josef knew Dörsam fleetingly from the Rotesandbar, where Dörsam usually stood at the bar drinking beer. Gray hair, bald spot, wiry, an engineer at Ford, old—the kind of person who had always been old.